Harold was trapped. The air was slowly being teased out of his body, replaced with a stinging emptiness. Every flail or kick only ended in more spots covering his vision. In what was clearly his last moments, Harold could only think of Vugulis, the girl of his dreams. Oh, what adventures they would have undetaken; what great tales would have been told of their daring exploits. At the end of it all, Harold could only hope she knew how much he truly loved her. The light was fading now. He could almost see it; the eternal peaks of Whildersun, stuffed with only the richest soil snd veins of pure systerun. Perhaps it was only a figment of his imagination, but he could almost see his grandfather havesting the-

"Ma! Quit trying to kill my son!"

Then he was back, sweet vapors flowing through his body once more. After a few moments, he could register the sound of gasping. Another few moments allowed him to register the gasping as his own.

"Oh, come off it, Dell! That ain't even half of what your pop gave me when we left. Why, the night of our ceremony we-"

Harold got up with an excessively loud groan. The near-death experiences were one thing, but listening to stories about his gram's love life was something else entirely. As if seeing him for the first time, both women turned with mixed expressions on their faces. Harold let out a brief cough before starting to back away slowly.

"Well, this has been fun and all, but I should really get to the cart. Y'know, leaving and all..."

Gram gave Harold a knowing look, but his ma's expression stopped him cold in his tracks. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but before he had the chance she perked up again and ran into the house. Harold and Gram shared another knowing look before shrugging the behavior off. Harold's ma had been like that ever since the ceremony had finished up. there was always something else that could be done to prepare for departure.

"Don't worry about her too much, kid." Gram said with a wink and toothy smile, "I'll be sure to keep an eye on her for ya."

Harold scoffed. "I'll stop worrying about her when she stops looking as old as you."

Gram let out a hearty laugh that revaled twice as many wrinkles as were on her face before. "We can't all be elves, boy. Best get used to it sooner rather than later."

"You know what I meant, Gram."

The two lapsed into an amicable silence. It was a long moment before either were willing to breach the next topic.

"You see your gramps again?"

Harold let out an exausted sigh. "There has to be a better way of doing this. I'm getting a little tired of bringing myself within an inch of death..."

Another silence fell over them, one far less pleasant than the last.

"Did he look happy?"

Harold raised an eyebrow towards his gram. "You know as well as I do that only one thing ever worsened Gramp's mood, and he's still in the fields trying to replace the burned crop."

Gram let out a heartier laugh at that. "Sometimes I figure adventuring would do your pa a load of good. It's a real shame he's so comitted to farming wheatgrass the rest of his drab life."

"The working Dwarf is the backbone of modern society, Gram. Without people like my father, Elves and Humans wouldn't have the time to continue with their innovations. Without those great minds-"

"Spare me the lecture, unionizer." Gram pointed her finger at Harold accusedly. "Name me one thing those twigs ever did for 'the working Dwarf'"

Harold could only frown at his gram's insistance. "I guess you'd want us going back to relieving ourselves in ditches, then?"

"Hey, don't judge until you've tried it!"

That caused Harold to crack up. Soon, the pair of Dwarves were doubled over in fits of laughter. Gram always had a way of stoping fights before they started. It was one of the few reasons Gramps had been able to live under the same roof with Harold's pa for so long.

Harold was reminded of all the stories his gramps had told about the days adventuring with Gram. Now, he would be getting his chance to make a name for himself. When next he returned to Southward, he would have his own stories to tell.

Harold's silent revelry was interrupted by the front door nearly falling off its hinges as someone burst through it. Harold wanted to scold his ma for a second offense, but he knew that conversation wouldn't end well, so instead he tried to pay attention to what she was carrying toward him.

The shield in her arms was almost too large for her to carry. Harold recognized it as his gramp's shield, only much... less. All the engravigs and scuffs that stood as testemant to many a battle. It took Harold a moment to fully process what he was actually seeing.

"You re-forged Gramps' shield!?"

Gram's face wrinkled in amusement. Ma was practically brimming with excitment.

"Your brothers wanted to do something extra special for you, so they made a copy and spruced-up the old one. Now you can tell your own stories by shield, just like your gramps did!"

Harold gingerly took the piece from his ma before strapping it onto his arm. the weight was almost uncanny in how accurate it felt to hold.

Just like Gramps, indeed...

Once he had adjusted to the weight, Harold saw a concerned expression creep onto his ma's face.

"Ma...?"

The concern deepened as she mumbled, "He's here..."

As Ma had said, Clive was waiting behind the posts that marked the property. He appeared to be trying to lean up against one of the posts, but the height and weight were tailored towards Dwarves, not so much elves. Harold looked back to se his ma holding another package as a lifeline.

"H-here. Gift from your pa."

The brown paper parcel was practically shoved into his hands as his ma rushed back inside. Harold could only let out a sigh. Clive was certainly more excentric than most, but such a reaction was overkill, even for him. It was then that Harold decided to turn around, and shock overtook him. Clive had mannaged to knock over three of the posts, and was in the process of seating himself on a fourth.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"Why, you stuck-up, ear-cut, stone-burning..."

Harold decided at that moment to start hoofing it for the edge of town. He did not want to be present for what Gram was about to do to that fool.

***

"Are you sure you got everything?"

"Yes, Mom."

"You have your travel provisions? Sleeping boots? Whetstone?

"Check, check, and..." Vugulis looked around at the small mound of sacks at her feet, scouring for one in particular. As she panned through everything, a realization hit her.

"Hey! Where'd my swords go!?"

Garra turned to the man by her side expectantly.

"What did I tell you, Walt? She's not ready for this! We need another month at least for her to get acustomed to her load!"

Walt shook his head wryly, keeping his short, brown hair from his eyes with practiced ease. A stroke through Garra's blonde locks was all it took to calm her down.

"You do realize almost all of this is getting thrown off the cart as soon as their out of town, right?"

Vugulis figured the switch from pleasant to outright terrifying had to hold a record in some parts of the Fatherland. Garra whipped around to point an accusatory finger into her husband's chest. Any lesser man would have shrunk back from the hazel pinpricks focused on them, but Walter only grinned them down.

"Don't you try that with me. You know I'm just trying to protect our daughter. What if she gets hurt. What if she gets a scar!?"

Vugulis could clearly see her dad starting to waver. She had to think fast, or her team might actually leave without her.

"I think it would be cool to have a scar like Uncle Saul's"

Now both her parents were glaring at her; her mother's eyes were filled with rage, while her father's mirth was barely being hidden behind bushy eyebrows. Vugulis didn't actually want a scar on her forehead, but the idea of not getting one at all seemed rather silly to her. She was going to be the (leader) of a brave group of adventurers. Better to have her scars outside rather than in. Both her parents were trying to lecture her now, but years of practice kept them tuned out. As a matter of fact, now hat she didn't need to focus on her parent's words, Vugulis could pay attention to other things. The laxberry trees her parents had planted were in full bloom now, providing a stark contrast to the wheatgrass fields and unkept, dusty soil Southward was 'known' for.

"-and besides, Saul's scar is on his ear. Who in their right mind thinks an ear scar is 'cool'."

"Walt!"

"What? If she want's a scar so badly, we should at least make sure she gets a good one."

"There are no 'good' scars, Walt! What are her suitors going to think when they walk in and see her face completely disfigured!?"

"Okay, we are not having the suitor talk again, but if the face is off limits, she could always go for the chest..."

"How is that not worse than the face!?!"

Vugilis had always found the trees to be a good hiding spot in full bloom, and several well placed kicks awarded her with two splinter blades and a bunch of Laxberries for the road.

"Saul is a masterful adventurer, Honeygarr. If a scar is good enough for the most eligable bachelor of Doenvale..."

"Solomon is a heartless, backstabing killer, and the ladies of Doenvale can shove that up their pretentious-"

Vugulis stealthily picked up her things and walked out the rear gate. Before running off, she thought it best to at least give her father a wave goodbye. Vugulis was only able to glimpse the slightest smirk on her father's face as she rushed towards the town gates. There was much to be done before her mother relized who Vugulis was traveling with.

***

"Can you teach me now?"

"Paitence, Robern."

Robern did his best to consider the request. Exactly how much time did have to wait to make him patient? Was now enough? Robern may have been more than a year younger than his friends, but that wasn't going to stop him from becoming the greatest {Systro} there was. He was never going to get anywhere, however, if he didn't start his training soon.

"How about now?"

The living legend beside Robern let out a tired sigh.

"If I give you a training exercise, will you wait until we're on our way for more questions?'

Robern nodded his head vigorously, which caused his mentor to release a chuckle. In the next few moments, Robern was directed in a basic casting stance and given a diagram to study. Apparently, this diagram was meant to provide a channel for Systrem's power to flow through. Robern wasn't entirely sure who Systrem was, but he figured it would be covered later. Robern did his best to connect the diagram in his head, but stray thoughts kept breaking his concentration. Every time he tried to connect one line to another, visions of raining fire down on his enemies clouded his mind.

After six attempts, Robern took a break to glance over at his new mentor. Saul was sitting rigid on his side of the cart, almost to the point of looking strained. Despite that, Saul seemed completely at ease with himself. It all looked a little forced to Robern, yet that was the only way his mentor presented himself. Before Robern could follow that line of thinking further, the cart lurched back from something landing in it.

"We ready to get on the road or what?"

Robern saw a twitch of something cross his mentor's face before returning to its normal placidness.

"Always the eager one, aren't we Agnes?"

As though in response, a short bundle of cloth and thread wriggled its way between Robern and his mentor. Before long, a pair of hazel eyes and a pudgy nose found their way out of the mess.

"A little help here?"

With a scoff, Saul patted down the folds of cloth until a gray ponytail joined the rest of Agnes' head above the pile. With a groan, Agnes pulled herself out to her shoulders, then turned to glare at Saul.

"You do get how that wasn't helping, right?"

Saul continued to look forward as he responded. "I already help you plenty. it would serve you well to solve your own problems for once."

Agnes frowned. "If there wasn't a child present, you would be getting some choice words from me young man. Why, back when I was your age..."

Agnes continued to grumble as she rummaged through her pile before pulling out a needle and thread. Robern was sure she had started talking again by that point, but he had already decided to focus back on his training. The first parts of the diagram started to become second nature after several more attempts. Now, every time he felt his mind wander, Robern would try to force himself to focus on the task at hand. It was hard, consuming work, but Robern couldn't call himself a {Systro} if he faltered now.

Robern didn't pay attention to how long he had been focusing, but he started to hear new voices from the back of the cart. Soon after, the cart lurched again from more things being thrown inside. Robern focused back on his task. He could feel himself drawing closer to his goal. He only needed to push a little farther, and he would have the diagram fully formd in his mind.

That was when he began to fall.

Robern couldn't hold his focus anymore. When he opened his eyes, he saw the cart rolling down a steep hill. On closer inspection, it seemed as though the world had become a hill for the cart to roll down. Was this the work of Saul's magic?

"Vugulis! Come back! You know you aren't ready to-"

"-eat my crusty fists you coward! You get back here or so help me-"

"Incoming!"

Clive landed on the supplies in the cart. A painful landing to be sure, but probably better than facing whatever wrath he had incurred from Harold's Gandmother. Vugulis and Harold seemed to be clinging on to the sides of the cart for dear life. Clive struggled into a sitting position as the cart relentlessly rumbled forwrd. Robern turned his attention toward the people sitting next to him. Agnes was seemingly unfazed by the situation, still stitching away at a piece of cloth. Saul, however, was sporting the first real emotion Robern had seen on his face; pure exasperation.

"Did you really need to expidite our exit like this!?"

"Oh, come off it! You can't really believe all of that was my fault!"

"Do you have a better explanation!?"

"Well, no, but-"

The two continued to bicker as Robern turned to watch his home. He couldn't quite remember when it started to feel like home, but at some point it had. Robern guessed that three years of performing odd jobs for some food and the occasional shelter would do that to a kid. Being born on the streets of some long-forgotten town had put him at a severe disadvantage from the start, but Southward had helped him feel like he could still make it with a little more effort. Even as his gaze lingered on grass huts being rebuilt with flame-proof stone of all things, his mind was already back to working on the digram. He may have started with nothing, but he had always learned quick, and he was going to learn to use that digram before the day was done.